


One Eternity

by make_your_own_world



Series: Four Years [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fate (mentioned) - Freeform, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-28 19:15:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18762742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/make_your_own_world/pseuds/make_your_own_world
Summary: PART 2 OF THE FOUR YEARS SERIESAfter you're brought back, things aren't the way Dean and Sam had fantasized about. You seem utterly focused on pretending like the past didn't even happen and avoiding Sam. Despite you hunting with them again and not being possessed, Sam can't shake the feeling that you left a part of you behind in heaven. Can things ever go back to the way they used to be, or have Sam and Dean truly lost you forever?





	1. Heaven

“Are you serious?”

Your mother rolls her eyes and hands you a manila folder that feels too professional for your ten-year-old hands to hold. “Your father won the rights to visit you, despite my wishes.” She crouches down to your eye level, attempting to bond with you, but she doesn’t even try to smile. Her face remains stone-cold as she says, “Remember, honey, your father isn’t a good influence.”

“Then why’d you like him once?”

“Pardon?” Your mother stands up, a thunderous look on her painted face.

“If two people like each other a lot then they have babies,” you say, grinning with one tooth missing in your smile. “I read it in my book. So why don’t you like Daddy anymore?”

“I liked him when I was younger,” your mother responds stiffly. “Thankfully I grew up and realized what he really is.”

“What is he?”

“He’s mean,” your mother says solemnly. Even though you’re ten years old, you know how mean your mom is. If even  _ she _ thinks this man is mean, then maybe he won’t be the knight in shining armor you’ve been dreaming of for years that will sweep you away from this spotless white house, perfect expectations, and bleached woman.

You nod, sufficiently cowed, and sit down in your chair in front of the TV. “When is he getting here?”

“In thirty minutes, so put on nicer clothes and brush your hair,” your mother says curtly, straightening the cushions on her couch and yanking the remote out of your hands.

“When is he leaving?”

Your mother smiles. “As soon as possible.”

“Mommy—”

“Y/N, call me ‘Mother’. You’re too old to be calling me ‘Mommy’.”

“Mother, what should I wear?”

Thirty-seven minutes filled with cleaning and changing later, you sit on your couch reading another one of the books your mother likes to shove into your hands whenever someone comes over.

“Sit up straight, Y/N,” your mother snaps when the doorbell rings. You look up sharply, itching to pull the hair out of your face, but your mother says it’s prettier down. You don’t really care about all that, but she’ll yell at you if you put it up.

You hold your breath when your dad walks through that door. He’s everything your mother hates now. You can’t imagine them ever liking each other. He’s extremely tanned and not very well groomed, but that’s not the thing that strikes you the most.

He’s smiling. Nobody does that in your house.

“ _ What _ are you  _ wearing _ ?” is the first thing your mother spits to her ex-husband after not seeing him for ten years.

“Something comfortable,” he replies, not taking his eyes off you. “Y/N?”

You nod shyly.

“Go get your shoes on, we’re going to get ice cream,” he says gently, smiling even brighter at you.

You smile hesitantly back at him; surely someone with that kind of smile can’t be mean, can they? Besides, you’d love to go get ice cream. You haven’t had it in months because your mom says the two of you need to lose weight, plus it makes you hyper.

While you’re pulling on your shoes, you hear your parents arguing.

“What’s she wearing? She looks like she already works in an office!”

“She’s professional, which is something you need to learn—”

“Y/N is ten years old!”

“I didn’t agree to let you take her out—”

“If you really think I’m going to kidnap our child, Y/M/N, then stop me.”

You enter the room with your shoes on. Your mother gives you a hug, which has you flinching away from her. “Remember, Y/N, your phone has a tracker on it. Even if Y/F/N tries anything, I’ll find you.”

You nod.

Your father holds out a hand to you. “You ready, Y/N?”

Hesitantly, not sure what to look at, you put your hand in his. You’ve never held someone’s hand before; your mother says it’s immature.

Your father leads you out of the house and right into a cheap motel with a dark color scheme and lumpy beds with too-thin sheets.

“Really?” you ask excitedly, jumping off the bed you’d been watching cartoons on and bounding to meet him.

Your dad nods, grinning at your fourteen-year-old face. He may be smiling, an expression that looks odd on such a leathery face, but you’re beaming, smooth skin unmarred and paler than it would be if you were outside like most of the other kids your age.

Monsters can hunt in the daytime too. Best to stay safe.

“I can hunt with you?” you repeat, still in your pajamas, the styrofoam bowl of cereal you’d been eating long forgotten. Your hair isn’t brushed, your clothes are two sizes too large, and you haven’t brushed your teeth. Your mother would go into cardiac arrest if she saw you.

Your dad doesn’t care. Thank God he’s finally saved you from her. Permanently this time.

“That’s right.”

You squeal and fling your arms around him. “I can’t wait! What are we hunting?”

“We’ll have to figure that out ourselves,” your father replies. “Are you ready to go?”

“Now?” you ask, astonished.

“Yes, now,” he says.

“Give me a second,” you say, still unable to wipe the grin from your face, “I just need to pack my toothbrush, then. And put my pajamas in the bag.” You can’t believe you’re  _ finally _ going to get to go on a hunt with your dad; the most you’ve ever done was research various monsters (and that one time you’d stabbed a werewolf while walking home from the movie theater; you’d had to lie and tell your mom the blood on your pants was from your period).

“We’re not in a terribly big rush,” your dad says, packing up his phone and laptop from the motel’s clunky wooden desk as he says that. You duck into the bathroom to put your clothes on and brush your teeth. To celebrate, you finally put on that flannel he’d bought for your birthday a few weeks ago. He must have been planning this for a while.

“How long will the drive be?” You toss your clothes into the dirty clothes bag as you exit the bathroom so he can use it. He still smells like beer from his night out.

“Three hours, so make sure you use the toilet.” He’ll never let you live down that one time you’d needed to pee so badly you’d done it on the side of a road because there were no restrooms for a couple hundred miles in any direction.

You grunt as you lean across the bed for the knife you keep under your pillow. You’d forgotten to put it in your pocket after waking up. Your dad leaves the bathroom just in time to see and sighs.

“Y/N…”

“I know, I know,” you grumble, stuffing it into your oversized sweatshirt pocket. “I was on the bed close to it until you walked in.”

“And what if I was a monster?”

“You knew the password.”

Your dad shrugs. “Fair enough.”

You stand up in front of the hotel room’s mirror and quickly put your hair up into a ponytail as he finishes packing. Hopefully no one notices the devil’s trap painted under each bed. Getting people worked up about Devil worship in the small town you’re in would not be good.

“You done primping?” your dad asks, faking annoyance. He even taps his foot for good measure.

You shoot him the bird.

“I’ll get the car ready,” he says, amused. “I’ll be outside.”

“I’m going to take, like, thirty more seconds!” you complain, but he’s already gone.

You tread across the room and open up the bathroom door. As always, you’re on edge; you’ve seen a few too many horror movies to not expect a monster to jump out at you.

Hunters are always the main characters of every horror movie.

You step through the door and into the roadhouse.

“Y/N! Hurry up with the beer!”

You stumble on the uneven dirt floor and almost fall, spilling a tiny bit of beer onto your t-shirt, and you stick your tongue out at Jo. Your hair is slightly lighter and shorter than it was when you were fourteen—well, of course it is. People change, especially after three years.

Seventeen-year-old you steps around the counter and walks the beer over to Jo. Apart from you, only about three other people are allowed behind that counter.

You pass by your father, who’s busily entertaining Ellen and another hunter by telling a glorified story about the one time he almost had sex with a ghoul, and drop the beer in front of Jo. Some of it slops over the side and onto the table. One of the hunters that Jo apparently knows, who’s about your age, snickers when she shoves you.

At the end of the table you’re sitting at, two hunters are armwrestling and five others are egging them on. Ellen hasn’t yet decided whether to yell at them or let them go wild—they’re smiling, and when do hunters normally smile in this life?

The boy that had been flirting with you before you went on your beer run, Dylan, smiles when you sit down. He’s probably the only hunter here that isn’t shouting at other people.

“Took you long enough,” he jokes, nudging your shoulder with his. He flicks his shaggy brown hair out of his eyes and you frown. The action reminds you of someone.

“Well, I got lost,” you reply back and clink your cup against his.

“Maybe I can…” Dylan leans close enough so you’re sharing a breath, eyes half lidded as he glances between your lips and your eyes. “Help you find your way?”

“That line work on a lot of girls?” you breathe, enjoying the momentary closeness. You’ll probably never see him again, but you’d like to have one night with a reasonably attractive boy that understands why you can’t stay.

Besides, it’s nice to get attention. You can’t count how many times you’ve been left alone at a bar because Sam and Dean are busy doing other stuff (Dean flirting with other girls, Sam doing his… reading stuff).

“What’s the right answer?” Dylan brushes a strand of hair behind your eyes.

You shrug and bite your lip. “I don’t know. Either? Neither?”

“Huh.” Dylan watches intently as you lick your lips, eyes shrouded in darkness from the shadows the crappy roadhouse lights create. “Well, do you wanna pretend I said the right one?”

“Sure.”

“Wanna…” he jerks his head outside.

You suddenly remember your father and your mouth drops down into a perfect O. Dylan takes it the wrong way and immediately backtracks.

“Or if you don’t—that’s cool too—my—”

“No, it’s just…” You point to your father knocking back shots with the best of them. “My dad.”

“Oh.” Dylan nods. “Protective dad. I get it.”

“No, it’s just… we can’t use my hotel room. Do you have one?”

“Oh, yeah,” he breathes, dad forgotten. He stands up and extends one hand to you.

“What a gentleman,” you tease, standing up. You tap Jo twice on the shoulder when you walk past her. She lets you go with a knowing look. She doesn’t know who this boy is that you come in here moping about sometimes, but maybe Dylan will be able to get your mind off him.

“M’lady,” he jokes, holding the door open for you. The air outside is crisp, the sky indigo but lit up with the lights of a far away city. If you concentrate hard enough you can make out a few constellations.

“Let’s go in my car,” you suggest. “If Dad sees that I’m gone and my car’s still here, he might go a bit spare.”

“I can always get mine tomorrow morning,” Dylan says, smiling good naturedly at you. He puts his hands in his pockets and leans down just enough to brush his lips against yours. “Lead the way, then. Does this make you the knight in shining armor?”

“Yes, driving my trusty steed,” you say once you regain your breath, rolling your eyes, and unlock the car from a few steps away. You have to step carefully; it rained recently so there are puddles everywhere as well as the usual broken beer bottles and other trash. You can barely see anything and almost twist your ankle when you step on a weirdly large bottle cap.

“This is a  _ small _ car,” Dylan remarks, watching you carefully as you take the next few steps. It makes you a little flustered to have anyone care about whether or not you fall while walking back to your car. Then Dylan looks up at you and winks. “Intimate.”

You huff, trying to conceal your laughter, and get into the car.

You immediately put the sun visor down. The sun is shining directly into your eyes and it’s annoying, to say the least. You’d lost your sunglasses when you were hightailing it out of some hillbilly town where they were convinced you’d murdered their mayor (you had, but because he was a werewolf). You think you’re in the clear, though. You’ve been driving on this flat country road for the last twenty minutes and there haven’t been any signs of any cars chasing you.

You relax a little bit and roll down the window. It’s unbearably hot in your car. No matter how much Dean tinkers with the AC, it never can fully cool off. You like to joke that him tinkering messes it up even more, which he takes with full offense.

You turn up your music and hum along softly to  _ Wanted Dead or Alive _ by Bon Jovi. Dean claims to hate this song, but you know he loves it. It’s why it’s on the mixtape that you’re playing. Dean had made it for you, after all.

_ It can’t get better than this, _ you think, unbearably happy for some reason. You can’t help the smile that’s on your lips, listening to the music your brother loves enough to give to you, driving the car he hates, doing the job you love.

It can’t get better than this.

You take your eyes off the road for a few seconds to study the multicolored trees, fall just beginning to start. When you look back, a man in a trenchcoat is standing in the middle of the road, watching with no expression as you drive towards him. You scream despite yourself, slamming on your brakes and swerving. The car veers, loses traction, flips. Glass shatters, gears churn, and you’re stuck.

It feels wrong.

(In the end, your mother never calls you back. She’s never even given the chance to realize and save you. In the end, she never even knows that you’re anything but a failure, a high school dropout that’s cruising along on the money earned from odd jobs. She never gets to know that you’re a hero. She never gets to know that you’re a dead hero. She dies alone.

In the end, your father’s throat is cut by your hands. He lies alone, gurgling and choking on his own blood, his phone crushed and broken but still clenched in his hand as he desperately tries to call 911.  _ Gotta save Y/N, _ is the only thing he can think. In the last second, he prays to a god he doesn’t believe in that Sam and Dean will save you instead.

In the end, a ghost shoves Dylan backwards into a metal rod that bursts through his chest and he dies there, too, screaming for help and shaking with both fear and cold. He had hoped that maybe he would see you again but when do hunters ever get what they want, anyway?

In the end, your brothers murder your Prius and it rots away in that junkyard, seats split open and stuffing bulging like innards, forever hated because of who it drove for years without realizing it wasn’t you.

In the end, nobody notices that you were replaced. You see your friends talking to you like it’s you, but it’s not, and then Sam stabs you and you die.

In the end, everyone dies.)

* * *

 

You wake up in a box feeling like you’re in an oven set to low. It’s not going to kill you, but  _ goddamn _ is it hot.

“What the hell?” you mutter with a voice that sounds like you’ve been smoking a pack of cigarettes a day. The pain brings tears to your eyes and you swallow aggressively until it doesn’t hurt to. “What the hell?” you repeat. Everything is so dark—did you even open your eyes? It’s pitch black.

You reach up and your hands hit a flimsy board. It’s on all sides of you. Something falls into your eye and you blink furiously.

“Am I… I’m in a box.” You huff. “All right. Why am I in a box? Wait. Nevermind. I’ll figure that out after I get out. I can do this. I’ve gotten out of puzzles worse than this before.”

At least this time your prison is physical.

You hit the top of the box weakly and try to scream but all that comes out is a rasp. Guess you’ll be getting out of this yourself. Hopefully you’ll have more luck than when you were possessed by a demon.

_ Don’t think about that. _ “Legs are more powerful,” you think aloud. Maybe someone will be close enough to hear you speak. “Kick it.”

It’s so dark. You could go crazy because of how dark and quiet it is.

“Come on, Y/N. Come on.”

You don’t know how you survived, but you’re going to make the most of this. You’re not going to die in a box six feet under.

You’re going to find your family.


	2. Heaven's Messenger

“Y/N?”

A hand breaks through the surface of the dirt.

_ It can’t be true _ , Dean thinks, but who else would be crawling out of your grave?

Jo shoves past him and grabs the hand with one of hers and furiously digs with the other. “Well, help me!” she shouts over her shoulder. As if that breaks the trance they were all in, Dean lunges forward to help her, Bobby rushes inside, probably to get a gun, and Ellen rushes inside to help him.

Sam faints.

Dean grunts as another hand breaks through the surface of the dirt. He grabs it and dirty fingers clench his so hard he’ll be bruised. “Sam, help us!” The hand he’s clenching slips and it flails. Dean flinches when it latches onto him with its fingernails. “Sam?” He glances behind himself. His brother is lying on the ground,  _ unconscious _ . He’d… he’d  _ fainted. _ “Jesus Christ, Sam.” There’s no doubt about it; his brother is pathetic.

Ellen comes out of the house clutching a large blanket. Bobby comes out of the house with a rifle.

“Ellen, check on Sam, please,” Dean groans, planting his feet and leaning back as he tries to get the rest of you out of the ground. He hopes you’re not suffocating to death under the dirt. He regrets packing it so tightly above your grave.

Ellen crouches by the younger Winchester and shakes his shoulder. Sam’s eyes flutter and he groans lightly. “Did you hit your head, son?” Ellen asks gently.

A head breaks through the surface of the dirt accompanied by a gasp. Then you start to cough, pulling your hands away from Jo and Dean to cover your mouth as you hack uncontrollably.

Dean feels the earth falling away from him even as he falls down to the ground at the sight of you. Your hair is messy, skin streaked with dirt and paler than it should be. One hand is covering your eyes. But you’re  _ moving _ , all the blood Dean hadn’t washed off your body isn’t there anymore, and there’s no hole in your stomach. He hopes.

“Y/N?” he asks in disbelief.

You keep one hand over your eyes but nod, reaching out for the source of the noise. One hand, gentler than it had been when your head was still under the ground, finds Dean’s. He holds it like he would a baby bird.

Your breaths are raspy and shallow, your lungs not used to breathing after so long and most of your body still under the ground, but you can breathe and you’re going to survive this. Dean is here so you’ll be all right.

“I’m gonna get you out of that hole,” he says gently, letting go of your hand and hooking his arms under your armpits. He has to act quickly, in case your wounds haven’t been healed, so you don’t bleed to death in a hole. You come out moderately easily; most of the dirt that had been holding you back was displaced by the time your head reached the surface, and you slide right into Dean’s arms as he falls down. You’re here, again, breathing and alive and well. There’s no blood anywhere on you. Dean lifts up your shirt, not caring about you trying to get away from him, to check if there’s anything wrong with your stomach. Your skin is pristine. You don’t have any of your old scars from hunting, either.

“Are you in pain at all?” Jo asks urgently, crouching in front of you. Ellen hands her the blanket and she drapes it over your shoulders.

“The light’s pretty bright,” you mutter, and Dean will remember those words for the rest of his life.

“Let’s get you inside, then.”

When Sam raises his head, he sees Dean cradling someone in his arms. George as a dog is furiously trying to lick your face. You laugh and push him away. “George?”

“Boy, let her go,” Bobby says quietly, tapping Dean’s shoulder with his gun.

Dean looks up and frowns. “What?”

“We don’t know what that is,” Bobby replies, keeping the gun trained on you as you frown and lower your hand from your eyes. You try to open them but the sun is shining too brightly.

“Bobby?” you ask quietly. “What happened?”

Dean tightens his grip on you. “No way, Bobby.”

“Boy, you know what happens to the people that come back,” Ellen says quietly. She wraps her arm around Jo’s shoulder and takes a step back from you.

“Shut up,” Sam snarls, getting to his feet. You stiffen and whip your head around. “Shut up. That’s…” he clenches his fist at his side. “Dean, let’s get her inside.”

You open your eyes just a crack as Dean struggles to his feet while holding you. Sam moves to help and you throw yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck. Sam staggers but stays on his feet. He never thought he would feel you again or see you again. He thinks he might burst.

“Inside,” Dean mutters, shooting Bobby and Ellen dirty looks as he leads his younger siblings inside. He doesn’t care if you’re a damn demon now.

It makes him think about all the other resurrected people he’s killed. This isn’t like that, though; he and Sam can handle you no matter what you want to do. You can’t overtake them like the other zombies had overtaken their ‘handlers’.

Still, though, he doesn’t want to risk anyone.

“Panic room,” he mutters. Sam, for once, doesn’t argue with him.

“Sam?” you ask softly.

“Yeah, Y/N?” Sam’s glad you can’t open your eyes right now; he doesn’t want you to see the tears streaking down his cheeks or his wobbling lips. He suspects you can feel his shuddering shoulders, though.

“Did I die?”

Sam holds his breath at that, eyes wide and looking to Dean for advice. Dean, in turn, looks lost and trapped. Well, Sam can make his own decisions. He swallows. “Yeah, you did.”

“Oh.” You stop walking and pull the blanket tighter around yourself, frowning as you think. It’s all still a little fuzzy, but… you remember enough. “Thank you,” you breathe out. Now that you’re inside, you’re blinking rapidly, eyes trying to adjust to being needed again. “You killed that bitch.”

“I’m so sorry I didn’t realize sooner.”

“She was doing a good job of pretending to be me,” you shrug and rub your eyes. “I want something that’ll stop that from happening again. A charm and natural stubbornness isn’t good enough.”

“Whatever you want, sweetheart,” Dean says, putting a hand on your shoulder to keep you walking. “What are you thinking?”

“I don’t know.” You bite your lip and rub your eyes again. Everything is fuzzy but slowly coming into focus. “What can I have with me always, no matter what?”

“A tattoo?” Sam suggests. “The… the demon said something about an anti-possession tattoo. Like, of a symbol. It might not exist, but it’s a good place to start.”

You nod. “That would be a good idea. I don’t want… that to ever happen again.”

Sam turns away quickly when you finally turn seeing eyes onto him. You’re the weak one here, not him; you’re recently deceased… and yet walking. Maybe that makes you stronger than him.

“It’s not going to happen again,” Dean vows.

“What’s this?” you ask Sam helps you down the stairs to the panic room. Panic that Sam doesn’t understand lights up your eyes and you let the blanket drop to the floor, shaking your head as you back away. “You’re… you’re going to lock me up?”

“Y/N, we don’t know how or why you’re back,” Sam says soothingly. He holds out a hand to you but you shake your head and sidestep away from him. That hurts.

“I’ve been in a cage for the last four years of my life,” you say quietly. “You can’t—Dean, you can’t.” Your lower lip wobbles. “I just got out of a  _ box _ ! My  _ grave! _ ”

Sam and Dean exchange despairing looks. They can’t risk it, but Sam also can’t stand seeing you so panicked. He can’t help but feel like he’s betraying you.

“Y/N, we don’t know how you got back,” Dean says quietly. “We don’t know if someone’s controlling you or if you’re just going to go plum crazy, so at the moment we need to keep people safe.”

“From me.”

Sam winces. He gets the luxury of looking apologetic. Dean doesn’t; if you see any sign of weakness you’ll exploit it. That’s just how you are. That’s just how all hunters are.

“One week,” Dean promises. “And it’ll be just like our younger days; being holed up in one room while other people do other stuff. Do you really think we’re going to lock you up and leave you down here alone?”

“I would rather be tied up outside,” you mutter, glancing between the brothers. Maybe you could make a break for it, but if they catch you, it’s over for you. And you’re unsteady on your feet and disoriented from  _ coming back to life _ . You don’t have much of a chance, but then again, when do hunters ever give in easy? “But fine.”

Dean turns around to open the panic room door and Sam relaxes, so you bolt up the stairs. Sam cries out but you’re already gone, taking the stairs two at a time and knocking Jo over in your rush to escape. Briefly you consider that you’re acting exactly like a regular zombie would act like, but you don’t have the overwhelming urge to kill anyone. Plus, the grass underneath your feet doesn’t wilt. Everything looks fine to you.

You head straight into the woods by Bobby’s house.

You hear shouting behind you and you speed up, disregarding the branches that cut your arms as you bolt through the woods, but there’s a much larger issue than a few scrapes: what are you going to do now? How will you go back to Sam and Dean if they now really know that you’re a zombie that needs to be put down? What—

You don’t see the man in a trenchcoat in time so you run straight into him. The thing is, you could have sworn he wasn’t there just a second ago.

It feels like running into a brick wall and you hit the ground. “Hello, Y/N,” he says with a voice that sounds too deep to be real.

You gape at him. “I remember you! You were… you were…”

“I visited your heaven in order to retrieve your soul and put it back in your body,” he says like that should make any sense to you.

If your mother were here, she would tell you to shut your mouth or you’d catch flies. Well, she’s not.

“Do you remember your experience?” he asks, squinting. “Sometimes the human mind will block out supernatural experiences such as that, but you’re a hunter, so you’re a bit more accustomed to supernatural.”

You blink rapidly. “You mean the… the memories? Of my mom and dad and Dylan? I thought that was just a dream!  _ That’s _ what heaven is like?” Just… memories?

He nods. “So you do remember.”

“Who are you?” you ask suspiciously, getting to your feet. You instinctively reach for your pocket, but you’ve neither a phone nor a knife to protect yourself with. You’re all alone out here with this strange (possibly crazy) man and your family trying to kill you. What a day to come back to life.

“I’m an angel of the lord,” he replies. “My name is Castiel.”

You let out a bark of laughter. “Really.”

“Yes.” He tilts his head at you. “Do you find that hard to believe?”

“Uh, yeah, ‘cause angels don’t exist. So are you, like, a crazy stalker, or—”

Thunder booms, except the day has been perfectly sunny until just now, and for a second you can see the outline of a pair of wings on the background of foliage. That shuts you up.

“Why’d you bring me back, then?” you ask, glancing over your shoulder. “Also, can we get somewhere farther from Sam and Dean? I think they might want to kill me now.”

“They can’t see us,” Castiel says calmly just as Sam and Dean come into view. George, still a dog, whines when he loses your scent. He turns around but can’t find it again.

“Y/N!” Sam bellows. He’s unarmed, but Dean isn’t. He’s got a gun in his hands and he looks like he’ll use it. You swallow. “Y/N, come on, be reasonable! You’d do the same thing if you were in our position!” For a second he seems to look right at you, but then his eyes shift away. You shiver as they pass right by you and this ‘angel of the lord’. Whatever he is, he’s got some serious mojo.

“Why are you here?” you ask in a whisper. Sam and Dean may not be able to see you, but they could be able to hear you.

“To settle the complaints of the cupids in heaven,” Castiel replies. “Unfortunately, you running away was not part of the plan, but neither was Sam and Dean locking you up.”

You stare at him for a second before shaking your head and asking, “Why’d you bring me back in the first place?”, hoping that the answer will make more sense than that one.

“Again, the cupids,” he says. “The demon had altered your fate as well as the fate of your father, which prevented Samuel and yourself from realizing your feelings for each other and—”

You can feel your face going hot. “ _ What _ ? Sam and I don’t—I was brought back because I didn’t give any to a  _ boy _ ?”

“Your fate was altered,” Castiel says, frowning a bit like he’s confused. “You were meant to find happiness with Samuel—”

“I’m perfectly happy without a man, thank you very much,” you snap. As usual, any talk about your emotions puts you on the defensive; even more so if it concerns you and Sam together romantically.

To your surprise—this Castiel seems a bit clueless—he nods and says, “I understand. Many people find themselves significant without the happiness of a romantic partner. However, your destiny was changed by that demon, so shouldn’t you be happy that you have a second chance to live and be happy whatever way you feel like?”

“Not that I know that there’s apparently a ‘fate’ for me,” you mutter.

“Pardon?”

You scowl. What if everything you do is just predetermined and you don’t actually have any free choice? If this Castiel says you’re going to end up with Sam—you only hate the idea because of how he’s saying it—then will your relationship be real or not?

“There are many fates, Y/N,” he says. “The story that killed you shouldn’t have existed; no one had been prepared for it. That’s why I brought you back. What you choose with your life is up to you.”

“So is everyone up there just watching me or what?” you ask, part annoyed, part curious.

“Some are. But not all the time.”

You grimace. Of course, that’s what Christianity is all about, though, and a lot of other religions; that there are angels and gods that watch over humans to see if they’re good or bad. Like Santa Claus.

“Now that I’ve talked with you, it’s time I talk with all three of you.”

Your eyes widen when you realize what he means. You lunge at Castiel when he raises his arm to do something, already exclaiming, “No!” but it’s too late. He snaps his fingers and the ground falls out from underneath you.

You fall back onto it right in front of Sam and Dean (George must be looking for you elsewhere) and you stagger. Sam twitches, instinctively lunging to help you, but you send him a dirty look for some reason. Probably because he tried to lock you up in the panic room. He draws back slowly.

“Y/N is perfect,” Castiel says without prompt. You frown and look at him. What the hell does that mean?

This dude is so confusing.

“You’re… you’re Castiel!” Dean exclaims, pointing at him with the gun. “The crazy dude that doesn’t get hurt by bullets!”

“I am an angel of the lord,” Castiel repeats. “Your mortal weapons don’t exist on enough planes of existence to harm me.”

“What are you doing with Y/N?” Sam asks.

“He kidnapped me,” you say, scowling.

“That is not true; I delivered you to your brother and—” You scowl and Castiel stops. “You all can rest assured that Y/N is perfectly intact; she has no urges to kill anything—no more than usual, actually. The panic room is unnecessary.”

“And why should we trust you?” you snap.

“I brought you back from heaven,” Castiel answers. “I can put you back in.”

“That’s fine!” Sam yelps and lunges across the no-man’s land between the Winchesters and you and the angel. He wraps his hand around your arm and yanks you behind him, as if he could protect you from an actual angel. You wrench yourself away from him. “Thank you, uh, Castiel.”

Castiel nods at him. “Take care, Y/N. All of you. You are all my charges now.”

And with that, he disappears.

“Well, for an angel, he sucks,” you grumble. Dean and Sam exchange nervous glances over your head. They’re ecstatic you’re back, but… you don’t seem as happy as them. In fact, you’re acting like you’d never died at all. It’s a bit disconcerting, especially considering how long they’ve been missing you. Now, they don’t really know what to do. “Is Bobby still gunning for me? How much longer until we can start hunting again?”

“Y/N, are you all right?” Sam asks softly.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” you ask curtly, not bothering to look at him. “An angel just put me back together. I’m pretty confident that I’m swell.”

“I mean, you did just run away from us as fast as you could,” Dean says. “Plus, you know, you died. After being possessed for four years. Are you sure you want to get back to hunting so soon?”

“You know, Dean, you sound a little bit scared.” You try to grin at him.

“Shouldn’t we, like, get caught up? I haven’t seen you for four years,” Sam says quietly. “None of us have.”

Your face darkens. “Yeah. I know.”

“We’re not hunting yet,” Dean declares. “No way. Monsters can wait. I’m done waiting.”

“Oh, yeah, and what have you been waiting for?” you ask, rolling your eyes. He sounds suspiciously chick-flick-y.

“A week off,” he says simply. “I’m tired. You just came back from the dead. Sam might have a concussion from hitting his head when he fainted.”

You snort and Sam colors.

“So, yeah,” Dean decides. “We’re going to take a week off.”


	3. Heaven's Sword

**ONE MONTH LATER**

“Don’t talk to me that way!” you yell, pointing a finger at Sam, who’s puffed up like an affronted cat. It would be amusing and cute, it would make you want to kiss him despite your better judgement, it would make Dean laugh at his brother trying to be as big as possible, but the situation is not ideal for that. “I was just—”

“Stop yelling!” Dean yells. He’s crouching in front of you, working on tying a strip of his shirt around your thigh. “You’re making your heart rate go up which will make more blood travel around the body, so basically, you’re going to die!” He finishes the knot, pulling it so tightly you kick at him with your other leg.

“You were just being dumb!” Sam bellows back from across the room. He clenches his teeth as the werewolf that had taken a knife to your thigh slams against the door that he’s trying to hold shut. “Dean, hurry up!”

You shove Dean away from you. “I’m  _ fine _ ! Check on George!” You look over at your half-brother’s unconscious form. He was only hit on the head, but you’re still worried, and you have every right to be. He’s your little brother.

“Shut up!” Sam yells. “Sit down and put pressure on your wound!” The concern would be flattering, except Sam is always concerned about everyone but himself, and he’s always concerned about everyone. You’re not special to him. You’ve been trying to convince yourself that for the last month, but ever since Castiel put the idea in your head that you and Sam are meant to be together…

“I’m not a baby!” you scream just as the window by the door shatters. The werewolf sticks his hand through and tries to swipe at Sam. Your stomach clenches at the sight of Sam trying to hold the door shut and not seeing the hand coming right for his shoulder…

You throw your knife and it lands right next to Sam’s head. He flinches, diving away from the door, and screams at you, “What the hell, Y/N?” You thrust your middle finger at him.

Dean rolls his eyes at his affronted little brother and opens the door. The werewolf can’t move; the knife that you’d thrown had pinned his hand to the wall. It’s an easy kill.

Sam looks at the knife in the wall stuck in the werewolf’s arm and sighs. “You okay?” he asks quietly, his voice hoarse from yelling so much as he moves in front of you.

“Yeah.” You clench your teeth and put your weight on your good leg. Using the wall, you get yourself steady and on one leg. “How about George?”

“We need to stitch that up,” he says, looking at where your cargo pants are shredded and soaked with blood, apparently not even hearing your question about George. “Come on, let’s go.” He moves to put your arm over his shoulders, but Dean starts to yell.

“Guys? We’ve got company! I think Werewolf McWerewolf had some friends!”

“ _ Fuck _ ,” you hiss and pull your gun out of your waistband. The pain in your leg makes you want to kill someone. A werewolf would do, but right now you’re really gunning for Sam. He rubs your fur in all the wrong directions, and in all the right ones. “All right, let’s go.”

“No, stay here,” Sam insists. He puts his hand out in front of you as if that would stop you.

You whip your head around to look at him, offended that he would think you would sit and let him and Dean hunt monsters. “Like hell!” Plus, the pain is making you angry. Better than making you weak.

“Y/N, you’re injured!”

“So what? I can still shoot some wolves from a few feet away!”

“I won’t let you!”

“Well, you don’t tell me what to do!”

“Y/N!” Sam’s voice cracks. “You can’t—you’re not allowed to die again, okay? So just sit down,” his voice is getting stronger now; brief moment of weakness forgotten, “and take care of yourself and George!”

“Stop worrying so much,” you snap. “A werewolf isn’t gonna kill me.” You lurch forward, limping so you put as little pressure on your leg as possible, and Sam grabs your arm.

He pulls you back and, before you can tell him to let you go, Sam practically hisses at you. Eyes slits, he says, “Y/N, if you don’t sit down right the fuck now I will probably have an aneurism from how fucking stubborn you are! I am  _ trying _ to keep you safe because I love you and you make it so damn hard!”

“Yeah, and if you loved me you wouldn’t try to hold me back!” you yell, your brain not quite caught up with everything that’s going on.

You and Sam realize at the exact same time. Your eyes widen— _ “You were meant to find happiness with Samuel,” _ —and Sam swallows, frozen.

He lets go of you belatedly and you hightail it out of the room as fast as you can, arriving just in time to see Dean kill the last of the werewolves.

“Thanks for the help, Y/N,” he says sarcastically. “I take it you and Sam are still working out the kinks in your relationship?”

To Dean’s surprise, you don’t tell him to shut up. You stumble away from him, forgetting completely about your bad leg. “I’m going to go see if there are any other vamps.”

Dean snorts. He cleared out the other room, so he doesn’t know what you think you’re going to find. “I think the blood loss is getting to you. Where’s your silver bullets?”

You don’t reply and turn the corner of the hallway.

“Huh,” Dean says, shaking his head. “Hey, Sam, what’s up with Y/N?” When he gets back to the room, Sam is standing empty-handed, staring at the doorway like he sees the ghost of Mary standing there. George is still out cold on the floor. “Sam?”

“I told Y/N I love her,” Sam whispers.

Dean blinks and tilts his head. “Okay. I take it she said no?” That’ll make things awkward, for sure.

“She didn’t say anything,” Sam whispers.

Now  _ that _ seems more like you. Dean remembers the first boy that told you he loved you; you’d laughed in his face because you didn’t know what else to do. The second time you’d actually liked the boy back, so you’d sprinted out of his place and back to the brothers in record time.

You are not good at that sort of stuff.

“I’ll, uh…” Sam gestures vaguely around and shoves a strand of hair out of his eyes. “I’ll get George, I guess. Where’d she go?”

“She’s making sure there aren’t any more wolves.”

“Are there?”

Dean shrugs. “I don’t think so.”

“Dean!”

“What?”

“Y/N can’t—she’s  _ injured _ —”

“She’s fine,” Dean shrugs. You can take a cut on your thigh. It took a lot more than that to kill you.

“Hey, guys! Cas is here!” you shout from the other room. Your voice bugs Sam for a second until he realizes why; you sound pretty happy to see him. For the past month or so you’ve been pretty snappy with Sam and seeming almost disappointed whenever you look at him. It seems pretty pointless to be jealous of an actual angel, though, so Sam just rolls his eyes and picks up George and slings him over his shoulder. He doesn’t know why he told you when you so obviously have the hots for Cas.

And no, he’s not a sore loser at all.

Not that you’re something to be won either way.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean says when he sees the angel. “What are you doing here?”

“I was alerted that Y/N’s vitals were dropping,” the angel replies. He touches your forehead and you stumble a bit, all the blood that had been on your skin and clothes mysteriously gone. Your clothes have even been repaired. There’s no pain in your thigh anymore.

“Thanks.”

Dean glares at you. “You didn’t say you were seriously injured!”

“I didn’t know,” you say flippantly.

Dean huffs.

“Are you staying much longer?” you ask Castiel.

“Yeah, let’s all have a sleepover,” Dean snaps.

“We can braid Sam’s hair,” you joke but then immediately remember that Sam had told you he loves you. And you’d run away from him. So he probably doesn’t anymore. The smile fades from your face. “Hey, how’s George?”

“Your brother is fine,” Castiel says. “And no, I cannot stay. Goodbye.”

And with that, he disappears.

“Man, he’s curt,” Dean mutters. “Y/N, come here.” He holds out his arms for you and you cautiously walk to him. He hugs you tightly. “You can’t keep getting hurt.”

“Yep.” You pat his arm awkwardly.

Sometimes the brothers’ strange behavior weirds you out; you know,  _ factually _ , that you died, but it’s not as real for you as it was to Sam and Dean. They saw you die, they buried you, and they lived without you for a while. You were stuck in your head up in heaven that whole time. Just like how you were stuck up in your head while a demon rode your meatsuit for four years, but that was different; it was  _ four years _ , and you knew subconsciously what was going on. The demon occasionally let you out, too, whenever it was doing something that it knew you’d hate.

“So I hear Sam said something to you,” Dean teases and you rip yourself out of his arms, your face burning.

“Shut up.”

“Why’d you run away?”

You glance around like Sam might be hiding to eavesdrop. “It’s just… Castiel said that my destiny is to end up with Sam. That’s why he brought me back. It’s just… I was brought back because of a boy. That’s, like…” You gesture something that you can’t convey with words. Dean understands. He always does.

“Y/N, I don’t think that’s your whole destiny. It’s not Sam’s whole destiny to end up with you, either. It’s a part of it, isn’t it? But just because Cas didn’t mention the rest doesn’t mean it’s not there. Besides, shouldn’t you be happy? You were brought back to be happy with Sam.”

“I’d prefer to be brought back because the world needs me.” You grumble, crossing your arms. In that moment you remind Dean again of the chubby, stubborn child you had been.

“I think you were brought back because me and Sam needed you.” Dean kisses the top of your head. “You’re too strong to need us, obviously, but it’s nice that you’re sticking around. It makes me happy, it makes Sam happy…” Dean nudges your shoulder with his and wiggles his eyebrows. You roll your eyes. “Besides, don’t girls love that whole ‘we were meant to be together’ crap?”

“Oh, shut up.” You bite your lip. “But I ran away from Sam. Won’t he be angry?”

“Sweetheart, Sam’s been pining after you since before he left for Stanford  _ four years ago _ , and you’ve done a lot worse to him than run away when he confesses his feelings. Remember the flagpole?”

“No! Ew!” you exclaim. “No! I’m not talking about that ever again!”

“Just saying,” Dean shrugs and holds up his hands like you’re pointing a gun at him. “If he’ll still like you after that, he’ll like you after anything.”

“But now it’ll be awkward,” you whine. “I can’t just go out there and say that I like him too!”

Dean snorts. “‘Like’.”

You kick his shin. “We don’t  _ breathe _ the  _ other _ ‘L’ word in this good household, Dean.” Just the thought of saying it out loud makes you want to panic.

“Well, if I know Sam, and I do know Sam, he’ll try to smooth things over with you. My guess is that he’ll say he’s sorry and he hopes it doesn’t make things awkward between you. Just do it then.”

“Yeah, and what do I do?”

The door to the abandoned house slams open and Sam yells inside, “Come  _ on _ !”

You bite your lip. He sounds annoyed.

“George is awake,” he continues in a much nicer voice. “And I want to get to a motel and take a shower!”

You stomp on Dean’s foot before he can make any innuendos, because you know that he already has seven prepared.

“I will  _ not _ be joining your brother in the shower!” you whisper-scold. “And he’s your brother; why are you so eager to talk about him getting laid? Shouldn’t you be all ‘ew, don’t talk about that stuff with me’?”

“No, that’s me with Dad,” Dean says. “But if I don’t push you and Sam, who will?”

“Dean!” Sam yells. “Would you hurry up? Is Y/N okay?”

You exit the side room and brush past Sam as quickly as you can, saying, “Yep, Cas fixed me up.”

Dean claps Sam on the shoulder. “Hey, my recommendation? Talk to her ASAP.”

Any other day that would just sound like solid relationship advice, but the grin on Dean’s face makes Sam suspicious. “What did she say to you?”

“Sam, I am  _ offended _ ,” Dean teases, “that you think I’d tell you. Patient confidentiality and the like.”

“‘Patient’? What are you, a therapist?”

“No, but you need one.”

“Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

* * *

 

George can tell that there is some sort of tension between you and Sam right now—your foot was bouncing incessantly in the car, even more than you normally move around, you hadn’t said anything to him the whole time, and now that everyone’s gathered in a circle to drink, you’re not looking at Sam in a way that makes it super obvious that you are pretty much only paying attention to him.

Dean looks especially smug, considering he’d only killed a werewolf and he does that all the time, which leads George to think he’s proud of himself for a reason other than that.

So, yes, George is suspicious. He tries to send you questioning looks, but then you start to pretend to ignore him as well, so he gives up and watches the television. Sometimes it’s hard to remember the inside jokes he had with ‘you’ you don’t remember, and all the tells he’d thought he’d categorized about you he should just throw out. No wonder the demon possessing you wanted to stay as far away from the Winchesters and Bobby all the time; it acted nothing like you.

If only George had known.

He tries to tell himself that he couldn’t have known, but the guilt likes to eat him up inside. He knows it eats Sam and Dean, too, and Bobby, Jo, and Ellen. All of them.

Except you.

You don’t want to hear anything about the demon. You like to pretend that it never happened. George knows it can be traumatic for someone to die, and aren’t people with who’ve gone through traumatic events supposed to get help? They’re supposed to want to talk about their emotions, right? It’s supposed to help with the issues.

George is pretty sure ignoring your issues isn’t going to work. He would think that you don’t have any, considering how flippant you are, but you’re  _ too _ flippant, if that makes sense. You’re trying too hard to convince everyone that you’re fine.

“Hey, Y/N, wanna come get some food with me?” he invites. George and you have been alternating between wanting to spend time together and not wanting to spend time together. On the one hand, George is your brother. You want to protect him. On the other hand, you can see in his eyes when he looks at you that he doesn’t know who you are, really. He’s slipped up a few times, trying to reference an inside joke that you don’t get.

He’d sort of thought right now you were avoiding him again, but you must want to avoid Sam more, because you bounce right off the couch you’re sitting on and agree. Something big must be happening for you to walk with him, because you both know George is going to try to get you to talk about your experience.

_ Shit, _ George thinks,  _ if I wasn’t a hunter I’d make a pretty damn good therapist. _ His lips turn up into a small smile.

“What’s going on between you and Sam, Y/N?” he asks once the door closed. You blink at him, obviously a little surprised, which is exactly what he had wanted. It’s hard to surprise you. After a second you start to walk next to him, stuffing your hands in the pockets of your sweatshirt. Well, it’s technically George’s sweatshirt, but you’d stolen it.

“He…” You look up at the sky, grinning a little bit, but George knows it’s more from awkwardness than actual amusement. “He told me he loved me. You know? And I don’t think he meant it in a sister or friend way.”

George’s eyebrows raise. He’d known for a while that Sam liked his sister, but he’d mostly been under the impression that you didn’t reciprocate the feelings. The blush rising up in your cheeks, however, disproves that theory. Now George is going to have to go all ‘protective younger brother’ on Sam. “What did you say to him?”

“I just sort of…” one of your arms rises limply. “I told him that if he did he would let me go out and kill some more werewolves. We were arguing, see.”

George snorts. If there was ever a better sentence to sum up your entire relationship… “Well, do you like him back?” He thinks you do, but if you did, why wouldn’t you be anything other than happy now?

“Can I tell you a secret?”

George tries to hide his smile. He would like nothing more than to be his sister’s confidant, but he’s sure that if he acts too eager you’ll rethink your proposition. He keeps his eyes on the ground, feeling your laser glare on the profile of his face. “Yeah, sure.”

“You know what Castiel said when I got brought back?” You don’t give George a chance to answer. “He said I was brought back because I was supposed to be with Sam.” You laugh hollowly. “Not because I’m a good hunter, or because the world needs me. Because some boy hadn’t tapped me yet.”

“Y/N…”

You clench your fists and glare at the ground.

“Hold on. Is that why you’re acting so rude to Sam?” George asks. You make a sound of protest at that. “Oh, come off it, Y/N, you’ve been terrible to him. I’m honestly surprised he’s still chasing after you.”

“Well,” you say loudly, “I should be more important than being some boy’s chick, you know?”

“And you are!” George assures, putting his hand on your shoulder. You shrug him off after a second and he tries not to let his hurt show on his face. “But shouldn’t you be happy that you pretty much have a sure happily ever after? And—”

“It just…” you groan, rolling your eyes up at the sky. “I don’t want my sole purpose to be someone’s girlfriend, you know?” You stop right in front of the convenience store, the yellow lights shadowing your face, and bite your lip when you look at George. You’ve known about his existence for over four years but he still feels like a stranger. He shouldn’t. He’s your brother. You love him as much as you can from your limited experiences whenever the demon woke you up to laugh at how completely she was fooling him.

“You’re a lot more than that,” George assures you. “You’re the greatest hunter I’ve ever met—”

You snort and roll your eyes. “You obviously haven’t met a ton of us, then.”

“Y/N, from what I hear, it sort of feels like Sam’s the one that should be having those worries,” George admits, smirking at you to let you know he’s just teasing you. “I mean we all know you would wear the pants in that relationship, if you ever chose to pursue him—”

“Oh, shut up!” You swat at George’s shoulder, but you’re smiling and laughing a little bit, and your eyes aren’t glossy anymore.

“I’m serious!” your brother jokes. “From what it sounds like, it sounds like you were brought back so you could have a relationship with Sam. Isn’t a relationship sort of give-and-take? So that puts you on equal footing. That, plus your natural aggressiveness, and the fact that he’s whipped beyond measure—”

“He’s  _ not _ ,” you insist, shaking your head.

“Come on,” George invites, not wanting to push you more. “I wanna get some popcorn.” He holds out his hand and you hesitate for a second before taking it and swinging it aggressively as he pulls you through the convenience store. “And what about you and demons now?”

You sigh. “I told you. I really don’t remember all that much. I’m sure you boys were more traumatized by the experience than me. I was just locked up in my mind for years, you know? I barely even knew what was happening. And, yeah, I was there when Sam stabbed me, but I don’t remember dying. It’s like if I’d been stabbed or hurt by any monster.”

You knew what was happening, but you couldn’t wake up. Eventually you’d tried to forget.

The worst part was waking up in the box. You weren’t sure if you would be able to do it and it’d terrified you. You still have nightmares about starving in a hot box, being suffocated by layers of dirt.

“I’m really fine,” you finish. You’re not fine, but you’re not terrible. You’re in the hazy grey area that most hunters operate in, where terrible things have happened to you but they’re not as bad as they could have been, and enough time will dull their ache.

* * *

 

Sam’s eyes widen as he hears the sound of keys inside the lock of the door. He and Dean exchange helpless glances. Though Sam tries to grunt through the gag, trying to warn you, trying to do  _ anything _ other than watch you and George get overpowered, the TV is still on. You wouldn’t be able to hear it even if you were expecting the attack. He can’t believe he got overpowered and he can’t believe he’s going to make you fight off these monsters with no help.

Especially demons. There’s a reason you’ve ignored every other case that involved demons, and Sam’s pretty sure it’s not just because ‘other hunters can take care of problems, too’.

The door swings open and for one single, glittering second, you’re carrying a plastic grocery bag and you’re laughing at something your brother had said, and the next your face is stone-cold as your eyes lock with Sam’s. His gaze is pleading and apologetic, and you’re a little too stunned to react for a moment, but Sam swears he can see something in your gaze as well.

George jumps, meeting a demon halfway in the air as he shifts into his dog form. His clothes tear as they find themselves on a body not fit for them, but he has plenty extras. The two forms roll and fall onto the ground, knocking a lamp off a nearby stand. It shatters. A second demon launches itself onto the scrabbling forms to join in on the fighting.

You whip out your demon knife and slash at another demon that’s gunning for your brother. She dodges and kicks you in the stomach before you can stabilize yourself. You stumble back and the fourth demon, the one that had landed the first punch on Sam, swoops in.

Taking advantage of the momentary distraction, Sam slips the knife out from his pocket and starts to cut the ropes holding him down. He knows Dean’s doing the same thing, but Sam’s too wound up to do it properly from watching you and George fight for your lives, both with two demons on each of you, that Dean’s out of his restraints before Sam is.

There’s a crackle of heat and you’ve taken out one demon. Another demon has already escaped from its vessel after George had torn the throat out of the poor human woman, but now the third demon is holding George by the tail and reaching into his pocket for his gun. George turns, snapping, spit and blood flying from his mouth, and takes off the man’s whole hand in one bite. With a movement that is more human than dog, he spits the appendage out, disregarding Dean’s grimace of disgust and the demon’s howl of rage and pain.

You grab the hair of the last demon that you’re fighting and slam their face into your knee, but you’re pretty sure it hurt you more than them. The demon stumbles back one step and snarls at you, now with blood running down his face from his broken nose.

Sam lunges for the demon you’re fighting the second he’s out of his restraints and Dean shoots the demon trying to cut George in the head.

Sam’s weight sends the demon flying, and you’re there to stab it in the stomach by the time the demon’s trying to get out of the headlock Sam’s put it in.

You drop the knife, hands visibly shaking, but all you say is, “That bitch ruined all the popcorn.”

George pads over to you, whining in the back of his throat. You put your hand on his back and just keep it there, more to steady your hand than comfort him.

“Nice job, kid,” Dean congratulates, stooping to pick up the demon knife. He wipes it on his pants and hands it out to you. You take it and grip it with white knuckles.

George stands by his duffel and barks. Though in the fight Sam hadn’t been thinking about his confession, now the air between you two is unbearably awkward. He jumps at the opportunity to pull clothes out of the bag and throw them in the bathroom so George can change.

“Hey, Y/N,” Dean says with concern when you continue to shake. “You’re fine, all right? We’re all fine.”

“I  _ know _ ,” you snap back. “It’s the  _ adrenaline _ , Dean.”

It’s a lie. You can’t stop picturing what could have happened if Sam and Dean hadn’t been tied up but possessed, or if the demons had been smarter or faster or stronger…

George exits the bathroom, wiping his mouth. “Human blood tastes nasty, especially possessed human blood.” He eyes the bloody corpses on the carpet. “I take it we need to leave?”

“I’ll get the car ready,” Dean volunteers. George agrees so quickly that you’re sure they’re leaving you and Sam alone on purpose, especially since neither bring their stuff with them. You half-take a step to leave, but George slams the door so hard you’re surprised the peephole doesn’t shatter.

You take to packing, studiously ignoring Sam’s eyes. To your surprise, he doesn’t try to talk to you. He starts to pack as well.

“You know, now is when you usually say a joke,” you eventually say, voice quiet and timid in the silence. You don’t normally offer the olive branch in these situations, but you’re tired and you just want things to go back to the way they were.

You don’t. You want them to be better. But nothing will go back to the way it was supposed to be, nothing will go back to the way it was, and nothing will ever be right between you and Sam. You’re not good at dealing with exes.

You want Sam to confess again. You want to be able to ride on his confession and make one of your own, only it’s a confession that doesn’t leave you feeling stripped bare and vulnerable.

Doesn’t look like Sam’s in the mood to confess, though. You set your jaw and prepare for an argument, or yelling, or  _ anything _ .

Sam shrugs. “Don’t have any for demons. Besides, you don’t seem like you’re in the laughing mood.”

You scowl. “Yeah, that’s because I just got attacked by demons! Oh, and we were attacked by werewolves this morning! And you—”

“What did I do?” Sam says lightly, lifting his eyes up to you. Your stomach drops. You’ve never heard that tone of his voice before. After a second he cocks his head and makes an exaggerated ‘oh’ face. “Is this about me saying I love you?”

_ As if you don’t know. _ Your eyes narrow. He’s up to something. You know Sam. This isn’t… this isn’t… this isn’t right at all. You can practically hear the cupids up in heaven complaining to Castiel again that humans are stupid and stubborn and you’re the worst person to ever fall in love with.

Sam forces out a laugh. “Y/N, you’re my baby sister. Of course I love you. What, you didn’t think I meant anything different, did you?” The words cut so deep into your chest that, for a moment, you’re surprised you can still breathe. “You didn’t think I meant it in a—”

You both know he’s lying, so you decide to tell a lie of your own that nobody will believe either.

“God, no. I’m just angry at you for not letting me kill any monsters.”

Sam bites his lip and stares at you, his face hidden in shadows. You can’t read the expression on his face, but you know it’s there anyway; the one of resigned sadness. As a car drives by in the parking lot, the lights shining through the window highlight his face and you’re struck again by just how attractive he is. You wonder why you’re acting like this, when it would be a dream come true to date Sam.

You’re just too stubborn. You’re too closed-off.

You’re a  _ hunter _ . Why couldn’t Sam be like regular hunters, too, where nothing is exaggerated and everything is subtle? Why couldn’t it have started out like it did with Dylan, with a one-night stand that meant nothing, and ended something like a fairytale but not, with him spending the night one time and then two times and then never leaving?

If Dylan was still here that’s what it’d be like. You want that comfort, the lack of risk. You’ve not heard from him for years and it hurts. Why couldn’t you have fallen for him? Why couldn’t he have fallen for you? Why couldn’t everything just be  _ simple _ ?

Why does everything have to be said? Why can’t you just operate in the grey area?

Because Sam’s never done anything half-assed.

You can see where this is going. You and Sam will both pretend nothing ever happened between you until one or both of you forgets about your feelings. In the meantime, you’ll both be trying to distract yourselves with stray hookups and one night stands, hurting the other with each person you bring home and savagely enjoying the pained expression on their face. Eventually you’ll not love Sam. Eventually you’ll stop hunting with Sam and Dean. Eventually you’ll stop calling them your brothers, and then you’ll start calling them that again, years later, but in a different way that hurts everyone involved. Eventually you might even find another hunter to date and marry.

Eventually Sam will find a girl—because who wouldn’t like Sam, with his pretty hair and beautiful eyes? Eventually Sam will forget that he ever loved you, that he ever loved you for years. He’ll forget how he fainted when you came back to life. He’ll forget how he felt when he saw you in the mornings with blurry eyes. He’ll feel a little awkward around you for reasons he can’t quite remember and his wife or girlfriend or whatever will glare at you with slitted eyes whenever you say something, and you’ll not notice, and Sam will just look at you with his multicolored eyes, a sea of emotions in them hidden from you both.

Eyes that are right now glittering, eyes that haven’t hidden feelings from you both yet, eyes that are begging you to do something,  _ anything _ , but you can’t. You can’t bring yourself to do it. You can’t—you  _ can’t _ . Even if the future turns out like that, what if you say you like Sam and he really doesn’t feel the same way back? It’ll turn out just the same.

It’ll turn out just the same. It doesn’t matter what you do. It matters what Sam does. He’s got the upper hand.  _ You were brought back to be with Sam, Y/N. _

Sam nods and turns away, and your voice tears out your mouth, too loud in the room: “ _ Bull- _ shit.” It stops Sam in his tracks. He stops. He wants so badly to help you, he does, but he has to know that you feel the same way. He has to know that you’d do for him what he’d do for you.

It matters what you do, but it also matters what Sam does. Like George had said; a relationship is a give-and-take. The power imbalance you’d been so frightened of is still there in Sam’s hands, looming over your head at the prospect of Sam not loving you now or falling out of love with you later, but you also have the upper hand in the same way that makes both upper hands not matter at all.

Sam turns around, every part of him except his eyes committed to his acting, and you suppose it’s payback for you to confess this time considering what you’d done this morning when he’d confessed. “Why’s it bullshit, Y/N?”

_ People can’t fall out of love in a day. Can they? _

“You told me this morning that you loved me, and you and I both know you didn’t mean in a sibling kind of way,” you accuse, pointing a finger at Sam. You take it as a good sign that he doesn’t speak, but you also kind of wish he would; you don’t have anything else to say. Everything else is caught up in your throat like a demon is forcefully stopping you from saying what you need—but don’t want—to say.

His face crumbles as you struggle to continue, but his voice is strong when he points out, “I did. I just said I did, Y/N.” Why does he have to be self-preserving  _ now _ , of all times? Why can’t he just go out on a limb and say he likes you?

“And  _ I _ said it’s bullshit.” You have to fight the urge to cross your arms and stomp your feet like a toddler. “Because… because if George looked at me like that I’d call the police.”

You cringe the second your words come out. They’re the wrong thing to say right now, even when Dean and George are probably laughing at you outside the door. Sam’s not in the mood to laugh.

“I don’t look at you like anything, Y/N,” Sam says, his tone final, and he turns away again, reaching for the doorknob.

“God _ damnit _ , Sam!” you cry, throwing your hands up. “Stop for one  _ fucking _ minute and let me finish!”

Sam freezes, his hand on the doorknob. His shoulders tighten. “I’m not in the mood to hear you accuse me of—and then not—”

_ I’m not in the mood to hear you accuse me of loving you and then not loving me back. _

This is your last chance. This is your last second. If you say the wrong thing, he’ll turn the doorknob and slip out the door and out of your life and out of your heart. “I do,” you choke out, picking at the drying blood on your hands. “I’m not good at saying that stuff, and you know it, but I—I—”

Sam’s hand drops to his side and he spins on his heel, fixing you with a multicolored glare that you understand and don’t understand at the same time. Would he really think you’re making fun of him?  _ Now? _ “ _ What _ ?”

“Don’t make me say it,” you joke weakly. He doesn’t return the smile. You don’t think you’ve ever seen Sam look so serious, not even the first time he hunted with you, when you were 14 and he was 15, and insisted upon keeping you safe— _ God, _ you realize,  _ I’m a huge dumbass. _ The other part of you asks, a little derisively,  _ That long? Who would put up with you, hoping for  _ anything, _ for more than a week? _

“Say it,” Sam insists, making it across the room in two strides. He stops in front of you, eyebrows furrowed but eyes hopeful and trying to hide it. You see his hands twitching like he wants to reach for you, but you’ve shrugged him off one too many times. His hair falls over his forehead and your own hands twitch, aching to push it back. Sam swallows and abandons the pretense. His face turns pleading. “ _ Say it,  _ Y/N.”

You can’t. Your mouth opens and you try to say the words, but you can’t. Shouldn’t he understand? Or is this just his insecurities coming out to play for once? Why can’t he be more mature than you now, instead of when you’re trying to play a prank on Dean? “I…” You swallow. “I have…”

Sam’s tensing up, you can tell; he’s getting bigger as he holds his breath, as if that will intimidate the pain from hitting him, but you know it’s just making him a bigger target.

If he’s been holding this in for about a decade, why can’t you say three insignificant words?

“Ihavefeelingsforyou,” you get out in one big rush. It’s not either of the ‘L’ words, but it’s better than nothing. The change that comes over Sam is instantaneous; he relaxes and pushes the hair out of his eyes as a small, shy smile passes over his face. He looks at the ground as the dimples finally appear and you realize what the feeling in your stomach is when you look at them. Why hadn’t you realized earlier that you… you had feelings for Sam?

“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear that,” Sam whispers, but you think you do. “Can I kiss you?”

You’re nodding before you realize what he’d actually asked, but it’s a good thing he’s too eager to shoot his shot, because you might have hesitated had you actually processed the question and driven another spike through his heart in the process. Dimly, you wonder how many spikes are stuck there because of you—spikes you’ll have to take out—but really your mind is focused on the gentle pressure of Sam’s lips on yours, the press of his hard body against yours, and his gentle hands circling your waist to pull you as close as possible.

You haven’t kissed somebody like you love them before, but somehow your body knows what to do. You stand on your tiptoes—jeez, Sam is tall—and hook your arms around his neck as he tilts his head and deepens the kiss. You taste beer and chocolate on his tongue and the short breaths you’re taking in through your nose are filled with his minty scent and you’re getting a little light-headed.

The hotel door slams open and Dean whoops. “That’s my boy!”

* * *

 

**ONE YEAR LATER…**

“You have no choice,” Castiel says. He’s expressionless again, even after all the times you and he have hunted monsters. You can tell instinctively that there’s something different, maybe even  _ wrong _ with him now.

“That’s ridiculous!” Sam protests. He reaches out for your elbow and wraps his hand around your arm, trying to pull you back to him. You can hear the thickness of his voice. You know if you turn around you’ll see desperate tears in his eyes.

You don’t like this any more than he does. You’re absolutely terrified out of your mind, but you also know that this has to be the right thing to do. The angels are telling you to do it, aren’t they?

“Y/N is the Righteous Man,” Castiel replies. “She was wrongfully killed by a lower being. While it isn’t perfect—”

You let out a harsh bark of laughter, your heart racing as you try to think your way out of this predicament. “In case you haven’t noticed, Cas, I’m a girl.” You don’t want to be possessed again. You don’t want to be.

“Your petty genders don’t matter to angels,” he says dismissively. “Y/N, I am under orders to get you to agree no matter the cost.” He looks at Sam meaningfully and your heart drops.  _ He wouldn’t _ .

The new look in Cas’s eyes tells you he would.

“No—Y/N, you can’t—” Sam starts but you’re already nodding.

“I need a verbal agreement, Y/N,” Castiel insists.

“Do I have your word that Sam and Dean will be protected?” you ask, your voice high and trembling.

“Y/N!” Sam hisses. He spins you around, large hands on your shoulders. “We—there’s another way,” he says, desperation clearly written on his face. “I’m not going to let you be possessed again. No way.”

You cup his face in yours and stand on your tiptoes to kiss him, lips moving chastely against his own.

When you pull away, Sam keeps his eyes closed, his breathing ragged, as if he still can’t believe, after a year of dating, that he’s finally got you. Your eyes are open, though, and your smile watery.

And now he’s losing you again.

“Yes.”

When Sam opens his eyes, the last thing he sees of you is you taking Cas’s hand, the angel staring at him, his head cocked, as if he doesn’t understand why Sam’s so upset, and then the two of you are gone with the flutter of the angel’s wings.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're confused, don't feel bad! It was intentionally written that way because Y/N is a little confused as well. All will be explained in later chapters.


End file.
